Five Times Claire Needs Peter's Help (and the One Time He Needs Hers)
by I Was NotA Robot
Summary: Exactly what the title says. "You're totally my hero." Gradually works up into romance. Ratings may change.


**Hey, Ella here!**

 **This kind of popped into my head when I was reading a few Tumbler prompts. Combining 'Five Times' and 'Drunk', here's the first chapter of a (hopefully) multi-chaptered fic. I love the dynamic between Peter and Claire. Honestly, I don't think they have the right chemistry for an Uncle and Niece – as TV Guide says about the Paire, 'I'm seeing a spark where there shouldn't be.' The fact that they're related just adds to the complexity (and maybe forgiveness?) of their relationship.**

 **This one is mostly family/friendship centered, though, though there could be a bit of romance if you squint. It's all up for interpretation. (But we all know that the author ships these two like FedEx, so keep that in mind** **). The later chapters might be a bit more bold, so if you're a hardcore shipper, watch out for it :).**

* * *

It's six in the morning, and he's just poured himself coffee when he gets the phone call.

Glancing down at the screen in his hand, he lets his mouth slip into a small smile before tapping the screen with a finger and holding it up to his ear.

He is met with a loud, nauseated groan on the other side of the line.

" _Ugh."_

"Claire?" he asks, concerned. He hears rustling, and the muffled sound of crunching plastic. Oh, now he's worried. She coughs, and speaks into the phone, her voice eligible but faint, with only the hint of a whine.

"I feel like I inhaled gasoline through my nose last night."

Peter furrows his brow and switches the phone to his left ear, and sets the coffee cup on the counter with a _clunk._ There's a woozy quality to her voice, and even through the phone, he can tell she's dizzy and disoriented. _Oh, Claire._

"Are you hungover?" he asks accusingly, and he can hear the protectiveness seeping into his voice. Such an emotion would be normal and expected, but it makes the question sound like a reprimand. God, is he turning into Nathan? He hopes not – the last thing he wants to sound like is a father.

It takes a whole three seconds for her to respond.

"Maybe."

Now he's sputtering, and he can hear the rebuking tone in his voice now, loud and clear. Dammit.

"What – how – why - Claire – why were you even drinking? You're only eighteen! And not even out of college yet!"

"And I'll be 'eighteen' forever, so I might as well start drinking now." she yawned, before letting out a groan. Peter goes on, coffee forgotten.

"I thought Mohinder said you had a crazy high tolerance for alcohol – something about constantly regenerating cells or something." he's aware that the volume of his voice is rising – hysteria isn't a particularly common emotion of his, but maybe it's the realization that his Claire, his small, blonde, innocent cheerleader went out and got completely hammered.

"Quiet!" she snaps, and he can hear her slapping a hand to her forehead. "He's right – it took like, twelve bottles of beer to get me tipsy."

"You drank _twelve_ bottles of beer? Isn't there supposed to be an alcohol limit?"

"Apparently not if you're pretty and blonde." she tells him, and she says it in a manner that's so manner-of-fact that he resists the urge to slap his own hand on his forehead. He makes a note to find out the name of whatever bar she'd been at and confront the bartender responsible for this. But he knows he can't voice this intention aloud.

" _Why?"_ he asks instead. "What gave you the idea to get drunk at six in the morning?"

"Actually, I got drunk a while ago. About half an hour ago, I regained my senses and started freaking out – then I called you after I found my phone. That took a while."

"Why? Where was it?"

He imagines her grimacing when she answers, "You _really_ don't want to know."

He really isn't sure he wants to know after all – if the cheerleader who pushes her ribs back into her body on a daily basis gets squeamish, then he _really_ doesn't want to know.

"And according to my roommate, logically, alcohol should make you smarter."

"Oh, really." he answers skeptically, waiting for an explanation.

"Yeah…it goes like this: a herd of buffalo can only move as fast as the slowest buffalo. When a heard is hunted, it is the slowest and weakest ones at the back that are killed first. This natural selection is good for the herd as a whole, because the general speed and health of the whole group keeps improving by the regular killing of the weakest members. In much the same way, the human brain cells can only operate as fast as the slowest brain cells. Now, as we know, excessive intake of alcohol kills brain cells. In this way, regular consumption of beer eliminates the weaker brain cells, making the brain a faster and more efficient machine. And that is why you're always smarter after a few beers."

It takes him a moment to breathe again.

" _What?"_ he asked incredulously. "As a paramedic, I can assure you -"

"It made sense at the time." she muttered, chagrined. Peter was torn between laughing and scolding her again.

"That probably wasn't the wisest choice. You're indestructible, and you know it." he advised her.

"And?" she prompts, and he can hear her shifting around.

"Who knows what 'drunk you' might have gotten into?" he grins in spite of himself.

"Oh yeah, about that. That's was why I called you. I need you to pick me up." she admitted sheepishly, the apology evident in her voice.

* * *

He's dressed, which is convenient. Dashing through the kitchen and through the doorway of his room, he fumbled through the tin on his dresser before closing a fist around his keys.

"Sure thing. Uh, where are you?" he asks, already shrugging on a coat and slipping shoes onto his feet. He curses when he realizes that each shoe is on the wrong foot, and he leans down to tug them off with one hand, the phone lodged between his shoulder and his ear.

"I'm not really sure. Hehe…I may or may not have woken up in a dumpster."

.

.

.

.

" _Fuck._ "

* * *

 **I hope you review - I'm not entirely opposed to flames, but I crave constructive criticism. Read &Review - that would mean a lot.**

 **Love, Ella**


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